This is the day I find out what the heck is going on. Evan, my 17 year old son is taking me. He’s wise for his age, has an old soul and has reminded me up until now, ‘Mom, it’s going to be ok.’ I worked last night and it’s a 12:00 pm appointment so I’m running on 3 hours of sleep. I’m not setting myself up for success.
The Buffet Cancer Center at Nebraska Medicine is beautiful. I didn’t appreciate it my first visit there. At all. I’m crabby. I say to Ev in my snarly tired voice, ‘They have to make it look nice so people that are going through hell have something good to look at.’
I brought a notebook to take notes. The 2 questions I have are:
Can I be around my dogs if I get chemo? (This shows my level of knowledge about cancer and treatment)
Could my knee pain be from a big lymph node that burst in my knee? (Really, I have a nursing degree, I just can’t think straight)
The doctor and 2 ladies come in. He’s kind. Tells me, “I know this is scary for you.” Cue the lack of sleep and yes, very scared, crying. I proceeded to cry through the entire appointment. He wrote down key points about Follicular Lymphoma. The difference between B cells and T cells. I was not expecting the next two words in this teaching moment. Not curable.
I had read what I felt was a significant amount of information about Follicular Lymphoma, but I had not read that. I could feel myself getting hot and nauseous. He said there were many different treatment options, usually beginning with chemotherapy. Before we could develop a treatment plan, more testing was needed to determine the stage, or advancement, of the cancer. He was ordering a bone marrow biopsy and a PET scan. Great. Two more things I will get to see results of that I will read by myself. I will get these tests done the following week, then return to discuss the results and find out how this will be treated.
I told him my goal through whatever treatment he chose was to be able to work. I told him I work nights and that I do transport. I sense he’s skeptical that I will be able to continue that level of functioning. He said his goal is to get me to remission and that I’d live a long life and die of something else. I’m on board with you buddy.
I cried while sitting with the scheduling lady. I’m being told how and when things will be happening in my life. She says to me, “You are really in a good place here. You are going to be taken care of well.”
I’m trying so hard to keep the last strand of myself together in this clinic. Finally we can get out of here. I don’t like this place. At all.
Evan says, “He was a really nice person” in the ‘beautiful’ hallway. All I can whisper through tears is, “I can‘t talk right now.” My pace picked up trying to get to the parking garage sooner than my limping leg would let me. Finally. In the Jeep. My head collapses into my hands with loud sobbing,”I can’t do this, Evan.” He was being as reassuring as possible. “Mom, he said there were a lot of options. It’s going to be ok.” I’m still sobbing. ‘I don’t want to do this. Any of this.“
I don’t remember anything else from the ride home. I’ve never felt ‘numb’ before from a situation. I now know what numb feels like. There’s a sense or sound of air coming in your ears but it feels ‘far away.‘ So weird.
He said I have cancer. I have cancer. I can not handle this. God help me. I have thought, mumbled and cried those 3 words so often in the last two weeks.
Oh. The doctor did confirm, I cannot have a lymph node explode in my knee. I don’t have lymph and cancer goo spilling out of my knee into my body. The irony of thinking that.
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